THE TROY BOOKJohn Lydgate1420 CE

The Troy Book of John Lydgate was one of the great vernacular epics of the early modern period. It translated into English the Historia destructionis Trioiae of Guido de Columnis and added to it as well. The poem, of 30,117 lines, is written in Middle English. The public domain text of the first book (of five total) deals with Jason and his quest for the Golden Fleece and is, in part, reproduced below. An annotated version of the Troy Book with partial translation and notes by Robert R. Edwards is available here.

BOOK ONE

In the regne and lond of Thesalye,The whiche is now ynamed Salonye,Ther was a kyng callyd Pelleus,Wys and discrete and also vertuous.The whiche, as Guydo lyst to specefie,Helde the lordschipe and the regallyeOf this yle as governour and kyng,Of whiche the pepil, by record of writyng,Myrmidones were called in tho dawes, Of whom Ovyde feyneth in his sawes,Methamorphoseos, where as ye may redeHow this peple sothfastly in dede,So as myn auctor maketh mencioun,Were brought echon to destructioun With sodeyn tempest and with fery levene By the goddys sent down from the hevene;For they of ire, withoute more offence,With the swerde and stroke of pestilenceOn this yle whylom toke vengaunce,Lyche as it is putte in remembraunce.For this peple distroied were serteynWith thonder dent and with haiel and reynFul unwarly, as Guydo list discryve; For ther was noon of hem lefte alyveIn al the lond that the violenceEscape myghte of this pestilence,Excepte the kyng, the whiche went alloneInto a wode for to make his moneSool by hymsilfe, al disconsolate,In a place that stood al discolat,Wher this kyng, roomyng to and fro,Compleynynge ay of his fatal wooAnd the harmys that he dide endure -Til at the laste, of caas or aventure,Besyde an holt he sawe wher stode a treOf ful gret heght and large of quantité,Holwe by the rote, as he kowde knowe,Where as he sawe by the erthe loweOf amptis crepe passyng gret plenté,With whiche syghte he felle doun on his kneAnd made his preyer in his paynym wyseTo the goddes with humble sacrifyseUpon his wo and gret adversitéOnly of mercy for to have pyté,To turne thise amptis into forme of man.Thus gan he praye with colour pale and wanHis lond t'enhabite whiche stondeth disolat,And he alone, awaped and amaat,Confortles of any creature,Hym to releve of that he dide endure.And as Ovide maketh mencioun,That Jubiter herde his orisounAnd hath swiche rowth on hym at the lasteThat he anoon fulfilled his requeste,And of his myghte, whiche that is devine,His grace he made from hevene for to schyneBenyngnely unto the erthe doun,That a sodeyn transmutaciounWas made of amptis to forme of men anon,Whiche on her feet gonne streght to goonTo Thesalye and salue ther the kyngAnd lyche his liges token her dwellynge Withinne a cité called tho Egee, As in Ovide ye may beholde and see.The whiche peple for her worthines,For her strenthe and grete hardynesMyrmidones so longe have boor the name(As in the lyfe ye reden may the sameOf Seynt Mathewe, how thei be called soo,Where the apostel so mochel hadde adoo)Whiche for wisdam and prudent advertence,Besy labour and wilful dilligence,By forseynge and discrecioun,As I suppose in myn opinioun,That this fable of amptis was contreved,Whiche by her wysdam han so myche achevidThorugh her knyghthod, whoso list to loke,Her manly dedis thorughout Troie Boke.In al meschef so wel thei han hem bornThat thei ful wysly provided wern tofornOr that it fil, bothe in werre and pees;For of no slouthe thei wer nat rekeles,But as the ampte t'eschewen ydelnesseIn somer is so ful of besynesseOr wynter com, to saven hir fro coldeSche toforne astored hath hir holde.But in this mater I holde no sermoun,I wil no longer make digressioun,Nor in fables no more as now sojourne,But there I lefte I wyl agayn retourne,Of Pelleus ferther to procede.Whiche kyng forsothe, in story as I redeAnd as myn auctor lysteth to endyte,Had a wyf that called was Tedite;Of whiche two, platly this no les,The manly man, the hardy Achilles,So as Guydo lesteth to termyne,Descended was, sothly as be lyne,Most renomed of manhood and of myghtAmonges Grekis and the beste knyghtIholde in sothe thorughoute al her lond,In worthines preved of his hond.Whos cruelté Troiens sore aboughtSo passynge merveilles in armys ther he wrought Duryng the sege, as ye schal after lere,Paciently yif ye liste to here.But Pelleus, that I spak of aforne,A brother hadde of o moder bornThat hyghte Eson, so fer yronne in yeris,That he of luste hath lost al his desyris,So fer he was ycropen into ageThat al his witte was turned to dotage;For bothe mynde and memorial Fordulled wern and dirked so at alThat verrailly his discreciounWas hym birafte, in conclusioun.Wherfor the regne and lond of Thesalye,Croune and septre with al the regalye,He hath resygned his brother for to queme,Estate royal and also diademe:Bycause he was croked, lame, and blyndeAnd to governe loste bothe wit and mynde,So febled was his celle retentifAnd fordirked his ymaginatifThat lost were bothe memorie and resoun;For whiche he made a resygnaciounTo his brother, next heyr by degréAnd next allye of his affinité.But as somme auctours in her bokys seyn,To youthe he was restored new ageynBy crafte of Medee, the gret sorceresse,And renewed to his lustynesse;For with hyr herbes and hir pociouns,Sotyl wyrchyng of confecciouns,By quentyse eke of hir instrumentys,With hir charmys and hir enchauntementys,Sche made a drynke, in bokys as is tolde,In whiche a yerde that was drye and oldeWithoute abod anoon as she it casteTo blosme and budde it began as faste,Turne grene and fresche for to beholde.And thorugh this drinke sche hath fro yeris oldeEson restored unto lusty ageAnd was of witte and resoun eke as sageAs ever he had his lyve ben aforn.The whiche Eson of his wyfe ybornHadde a son, and Jason was his name,In wirk of whom Nature nas to blame;For sche hir crafte platly and konnyngSpent upon hym hooly in wirkyng,Whan sche hym made with herte, wil, and thought,That of hir crafte behynde was ryght nought.To rekne his schap and also his fayrnes,His strenthe, his bewté, and his lyflynes,His gentilles and wyse governaunce,How large he was, and of dalliaunceThe moste goodly that men koude knowe,In al his port bothe to hyghe and lowe,And with al this avise and tretable -That of konnyng God wot I am nat ableFor to discreye his vertues by and by.For as myn auctor telleth feithefully,He was beloved so of old and yongeThat thorugh the londe is his honour spronge;But for that he was but yonge and sklender,Of age also inly grene and tender,He was committed to the governailleOf Pelleus, to whom withoute failleIn everythyng he was as servisable,As diligent in chambre and at table,As evere was any childe or manUnto his lorde, in al that ever he canDevise in herte of feithful obeyschaunce;So that in chere nor in countenaunce,Inwarde in herte nor outwarde in schewyng,To his uncle ne was he nat grucchyng;Albe he had holly in his handeThe worthi kyngdam and the riche landeOf this Jason and the eritage,Only for he was to yonge of age.Unto whom Pelleus dide his peyneAgeynes herte falsely for to feyne,To schewen other than he mente in herte,And kepte hym cloos that nothing hym asterte,Lyche an addre under flouris fayre,For to his herte his tonge was contrarie:Benyngne of speche, of menyng a serpente,For under colour was the tresoun blenteTo schewe hym goodly unto his allye;But inwarde brent of hate and of envieThe hoote fyre, and yit ther was no smeke,So covertly the malys was yreke,That no man myght as by sygne espieToward Jason in herte he bare envie.And merveil noon, for hit was causeles,Save he dradde that he for his encresAnd for his manhood likly was t'ateyne For to succede in his faders reigne,Whiche Pelleus unjustly ocupieth;And day be day cast and fantasiethHow his venym may be som pursuteUppon Jason be fully execute.Heron he museth every hour and tyme,As he that dradde to sen an hasty prymeFolowen a chaunge, as it is wont to done,Sodeynly after a newe moone;He caste weyes and compasseth sore,And under colour alwey more and moreHis felle malys he gan to close and hide,Lyche a snake that is wont to glydeWith his venym under fresche floures;And as the sonne is hoot afore thise schoures,So of envie hattere bran the glede.Upon a tyme he sought to procedeTo execute his menynge everydel,In porte a lambe, in herte a lyoun fel,Dowble as a tygre slighly to compasse,Galle in his breste and sugre in his face,That no man hath to hym suspecioun,Howe he purveieth the destrucciounOf his nevewe and that withinne a whyle,Pretendyng love, albe the fyn was gyle.His malys was ischette so under keyeThat his entent can no man bewreye;It was conceled and closed in secré,Under the lok of pryvé enmyté,And that in soth greved hym the more:Upon hymsilf the anger frat so sore,Abydyng ay til unto his ententHe fynde may leyser convenientUpon his purpos platly to procedeFor to parforme it fully up in dede.Wherof Jason hath ful lytel rought -His uncle and he wer not in o thought -Of whos menyng was no convenience,For malys was coupled with innocence;And grownde of al, as I can divise,Was the ethik of false covetise,Whiche fret so sore falsly for to wynne,As crop and rote of every sorowe and synne,And cause hath ben, sythen goo ful yore,That many a rewme hath abought ful soreThe dredful venym of covetyse, allas!Lat hem be war that stonden in this caasTo thinke aforne and for to have in myndeThat al falshed draweth to an ende:For thoughe it bide and last a yer or two,The ende in soth schal be sorwe and woOf alle that ben false and envious.

Whan Hercules and Jasoun on his hondOut of hir schip taken han the londAnd with hem eke her knyghtes everychonThat fro the see ben to londe goon,Forweried after her travaille;And thei in sothe come to arivailleAt Symeonte, an havene of gret renoun,That was a lyte bysyde Troye town -And thei wer glad to ben in sikirnesseFrom storm and tempest after werynesse;For thei ne ment tresoun, harm, nor gyleBut on the stronde to resten hem a while;To hynder no wyght, of no maner age,Nor in that ile for to do damageTo man or beste, wherevere that thei goo,But for to abyde ther a day or twoHem to refresche and repeire anoonWhan that the rage of the see wer goon.And whiles thei on the stronde leye,Thei nothyng dide but disporte and playeAnd bathe and wasche hem in the fresche ryverAnd drank watrys that were swote and clere,That sprange lyche cristal in the colde welle,And toke right nought but it were to selle.It was no thing in her entenciounUnto no wyghte to done offencioun,For to moleste or greven ony wyght;But the ordre of Fortunys myghtHath evere envy that men lyve in ese,Whos cours enhasteth unwarly to dissese.For sche was cause, God wotte, causeles,This gery Fortune, this lady reccheles,The blynde goddesse of transmutacioun,To turne her whele by revoluciounTo make Troyens unjustly for to weneThat Grekys werne arived hem to tene,So that the cause of this suspeciounHath many brought unto destruccioun.Ful many worthi of kynges and of princesThorughoute the worlde, rekned in provinces,Werne by this sclawnder unto deth brought,For thing, allas, that was never thought.For it was cause and occasiounThat this cité and this royal townDistroied was, as it is pleynly fownde,Whos walles highe wer bete down to grounde.And many man and many worthi knyghteWere slawe ther, and many lady bryghteWas wydowe made by duresse of this werre,As it is kouthe and reported ferre;And many mayde in grene and tender ageBelefte wer sool in that grete rage,Behynd her fadris, allas, it falle schulde!And for nothing but that Fortune woldeSchewen her myght and her cruelté,In vengaunce takyng upon this cité.Allas, that evere so worthi of estateSchulde for lytel fallen at debate!Whan it is gonne, it is not lyght to staunche:For of griffyng of a lytel brauncheFul sturdy trees growen up ful ofte;Who clymbeth hyghe may not falle softe;And of sparkys that ben of syghte smaleIs fire engendered that devoureth al;And a quarel, first of lytel hate,Encauseth flawme of contek and debateAnd of envie to sprede abrod ful ferre.And thus, allas, in rewmys mortal werreIs first begonne, as men may rede and see,Of a sparke of lytel enmytéThat was not staunchid first whan it is gonne.For whan the fyre is so fer yronneThat it enbraseth hertis by hatredeTo make hem brenne, hoot as any glede,On outher party thorugh his cruel tene,Ther is no staunche but scharpe swerdys kene,The whiche, allas, consumeth al and sleth;And thus the fyne of enmyté is deth.Though the gynnyng be but casuel,The fret abydyng is passyng cruelTo voide rewmys of reste, pees, and joye,As it fil whilom of this worthi Troye.It doth me wepe of this case sodeyne;For every wyght oughte to compleyneThat lytel gylte schulde have swyche vengaunce, Except parcas thorugh Goddys purvyaunceThat this mescheffe schulde after beFolwyng perchaunse of gret felicité.For Troye brought unto destrucciounWas the gynnyng and occasioun,In myn auctor as it is specified,That worthi Rome was after edefiedBy the ofspryng of worthi Eneas,Whilom fro Troye whan he exiled was.The whiche Rome, rede and ye may se,Of al the worlde was hed and chef citéFor the passyng famous worthinesse.And eke whan Troye was brought in distresseAnd the wallis cast and broke down,It was in cause that many regiounBegonne was and many gret cité:For this Troyan, this manly man Enee,By sondri sees gan so longe saille, Til of fortune he com into YtailleAnd wan that lond, as bookes tellen us;With whom was eke his sone Askanius,That after Enee next began succedeThe lond of Ytaille justly to possede;And after hym his sone Silvius,Of whom cam Brute, so passyngly famus;After whom, yif I schal nat feyne,Whilom this lond called was Breteyne,For he of geauntys thorugh his manhood wanThis noble yle and it first began.From Troye also with this ilke EneeCam worthi Francus, a lord of highe degréWhiche upon Rone, t'encressen his renoun,Bilt in his tyme a ful royal toun,The whiche sothly, his honour to avaunce,After his name he made calle Fraunce;And thus began, as I understond,The name first of that worthi lond.And Anthenor, departyng from Troyens,Gan first the cité of Venycyens;And Sycanus withinne a lytel whileGan enhabite the lond of Cecyle.And after partyng of this Sycanus,His worthi brother, called Syculus,So as I fynde, regned in that yle;And after hym it called was Cecille.But Eneas is to Tuscy goon,It t'enhabite with peple right anoon;And in Cecille he Naplis first began,To whiche ful many NeopolitanLongeth this day, ful riche and of gret myght.And Diomedes, the noble worthi knyght,Whan Troye was falle with his toures faire,As to his regne he cast to repaire,His leges gan to feynen a quereleAgeynes hym and schop hem to rebelle;And of malys and conspiracioun,Thei hym withhilde bothe septer and croun,Her dueté and her olde lygaunceAnd hym denye trouthe and obeissance.Wherfor anoon, so as bokes telle,With al his folke he went for to dwelleUnto Callabre and gan it to possede.And ther the knyghtes of this DyomedeThat fro Troye han him thider swedTo forme of briddes wern anon transmwedBy Cyrces crafte, doughter of the sonne,And in the eyr to fleen anoon thei gonneAnd called ben, in Ysidre as I rede,Amonges Grekys briddes of Dyomede.But as som bokys of hem ber witnesse,This chaunge was made be Venus the goddesseOf wrath sche had to this worthi knyghte;Only for sche sawe hym onys fyghteWith Eneas, hir owne sone dere.At whiche tyme, as thei faught ifereAnd Diomede with a darte igroundeGan hame at hym a dedly mortal wounde,His moder Venus gan anoon hym schroudeUnder a skye and a mysty cloudeTo saven hym that tyme fro meschaunce.And for this skyl Venus took vengaunce:Into briddes to turne his meyné.And in that forme fro yer to yer thei fleUnto his towmbe, wher that he is grave.So upon hym a mynde yit thei have,That of custom for a remembraunceA rite thei holde and an observaunceAt his exequies thise briddes everychonA dayes space and thennys nought ne gon.And overmore, as it to hem is dwe,Thei love Grekis, and platly thei escheweLatyns alle, for ought that may betyde:For thei present, anoon thei flen aside; 1And eche from other, as bokys us assure,This briddes knowe only of natureGrekys and Latyns kyndely assonder,Whan thei hem seen: the whiche is swiche a wonderUnto my witte that I can nought espieThe causys hid of swiche sorcerye.But wel I wot, though my wit be blent,That rote of al was fals enchauntement.But of our feithe we oughte to defyeSwiche apparencis schewed to the eye,Whiche of the fende is but illusioun -Herof no more. And thus whan Troye tounEversed was and ibrought to nought,Ful many cité was ibilt and wrought,And many lond and many riche tounWas edified by th'ocasiounOf this werre, as ye han herde me telle.Whiche to declare now I may not dwelleFrom point to point, lyche as bokis seyn,For to Jason I wil resorte ageynThat londed is with worthi HerculesAt Symeonte, the havene that thei ches,As I have tolde, to reste hem and counforte,And for not elles but only to disporte.But to the kyng regnyng in Troye townThat was that tyme called Lamedown,Of fals envy reported was and toldeHow certeyn Grekis wern of herte boldeTo entre his lond, the whiche thei nat knewe,Wel arrayed in a vessel newe.Whiche to arryve hadde no lycenceAnd hem purpose for to doon offenceBe liklyhed and his lond to greve:For thei of pryde withouten any leveOr safcondyte han the stronde ytake;And swiche maistries on the lond thei make,As in her power wer alle maner thyng,Havyng no rewarde pleynly to the kyng;Of his estat take thei noon hede.Of swyche straungeris gretly is to drede,Yiffe men be laches outher necligentFully to wit what is her entent,But furthe prolong and no pereil caste.Swyche sodeyn thing wolde be wist as fasteAnd nat differrid til the harme be do;It wer wisdam that it wer seie to:Men may to long suffryn and abydeOf necligence for to lete slydeFor to enqueren of her governaunce.This was the speche and the dalyaunceEveryche to other by relaciounIn every strete thorughoute Troye toun. Somme rounyng and somme spak abrood;And this speche so longe ther aboodFrom on to another, sothly, that the sounReported was to Kyng Lamedoun,As ye han herde, the whiche of wilfulnesse,Without counsail or avisenesse,To hastily maked hath his sonde To wit how thei wern hardy for to londeBesyde his leve, of presumpcioun.Wherfore he bad in conclusiounWithoute abood sone to remwe,Or finally thei schulde nat escheweTo be compellid, maugre who seith nay.And so the kyng upon a certeyn dayIn haste hath sent his embassatourUnto Jason, of Grekys governour,That nouther thought harme nor vylonyeBut innocent with his companyeDisported hym endelong the strondeAnd ever hath do sethen he cam to londe.And of the charge that he on hym leydeAnd word by word to Jason how he seide,As in effecte with every circumstaunce,This was the somme pleinly in substaunce. "The wise, worthi, moste famus of renoun,The myghty kyng, the noble LamedounHath unto yow his message sent,Of whiche th'effect, as in sentement,Is this in sothe: that he hath mervailleInto this londe of your arivaille,Bryngyng with yow Grekys nat a fewe,And have no condyte for yow to schewe,Proteccioun, pleynly, nor lycence,In prejudise of his magnificence.Wherfore he hath on me the charge leydeAnd wil to yow that it be platly seydeThat ye anoon, withoute more delay,Withoute noyse, or any more affrayOf Troye lond the bowndis that ye leve;Or yow and youres he casteth for to greve.And bet it is with ese to departeThan of foly your lyves to juparteIn any wyse, for lak of providenceAgeyns his wille to make resistenceOuther of pride or of wilfulnesse,For to be bolde withoute avisenesseTo interrupte his felicité;For he desyreth in tranquillitéTo holde his regne withoute perturbaunce.In whos persone is made swyche aliaunceAtwen his manhood and royal magestéThat thei nyl suffre noon of no degréT'enpugne his quiete in any maner wyse;Wherfore I consaille, as ye seme wyse,To taken hede unto that I seyeAnd his byddyng noght to disobeie,Liste ye offende his kyngly excellence.For ye schal fynde in experienceWithoute feynyng sothe al that I telle:Take hede therfor; I may no lenger dwelleFrom poynt to poynt, syth ye be wis and sage;For this is hool th'effecte of my massage."Whan Jason herd of the massangerThise wordes alle, he gan chaunge cherAnd kepte hym cloos with sobre contenaunceAnd was nat hasty for ire nor grevaunce;For no rancour he caughte of his tale,Save in his face he gan to wexe pale;Long abydyng or ought he wolde seynAnd or he spak any worde ageynUnto hym that from the kyng was sent,He gan disclose the somme of his ententUnto his foolke stondyng ronde aboute;For unto hem he discurede outeThe message hool, firste whan he abreide,And worde by worde thus to hem he seyde:"Sirs," he seyth, "to yow be it knowe -Taketh hede, I praye, both hygh and lowe -How Lamedoun, that is Kyng of Troye,Hath sent to us a wonderful envoye,Chargynge in haste to hyye oute of his lond;And axeth how we upon the strondeFor to arive hadden hardinesseWithoute leve: seth here his gentillesseAnd his fredam, the whiche is nat a lite!How lyche a kyng that he can hym quiteUnto straungerys that entren in his ileFor nought, God wot, but for a litel whileHem to refresche and departe anoon,Lyche as ye can recorden everychonAnd bere witnes, bothe alle and somme.Allas, fredam, wher is it now becom?Where is manhood and gentilnesse also,Whiche in a kyng togidre bothe twoSchulde of custom han her restyng place?And wher is honour, that schulde also enbraceA lordis hert, whiche of knyghtly ryght,Of manly fredam, with alle his fulle myght,Schulde straungeris refresche and reconforte,That aftirward thei myght of hym reporteLargesse expert, manhood, and gentillesseThat thei han founden in his worthinesse.For yiffe noblesse wer of his allyeAnd fredam eke knyt with his regalye(So as longeth to honour of a kyng),He schulde have chargid first of alle thingHis worthi liges with al that myghte pleseTo have schewed the comfort and the eseWith al hir myght and her besy cureUnto straungeris that of aventureWern in the see dryven and dismaiedAnd of our comfort nat ben evel payed.For yif that he in any cas semblable,Outher by fortune that is variable,By sort or happe, that may not be withstonde,Arived had into Grekys londe,More honestly, lyche to his degré,He schulde of us have resseived be,Lyche as it longeth unto genterie.But syth that he, for ought I can espie,Hath fredam, honour, and humanitéAtonys made oute of his courte to fle,Chose dishonour and late worschip goon -Ther is no more. But we schal everychonThat he hath chosen helpe to fulfilleWhan power schal nat be lyke his wille:This to seyne - and sothe it schal be founde -That his dede on hymsilfe schal rebounde,Sith of malys he hath this werke begonne,Paraventure or the somer sonneThe sodiak hath thries gon aboute.For late hym trust and no thing ben in doute,We schal hym serve with swyche as he hath sought;For yif I lyve it schal be dere abought,Albe therof I sette as now no tyde.And in this lond I nyl no lenger bydeTil I have leiser better to sojorne."And with that worde he gan anoon to turneWith manly face and a sterne chereSodeynly unto the massangereThat fro the kyng unto hym was sent;And in this wyse he scheweth his entent:"My frende," quod he, "I have wel understandeThe massage hool that thou toke on hondeOf thi kyng to bryngen unto usRight now unwarly; and syth it standeth thus,That I have his menyng everydelFrom point to point and understonde it wel -For word by worde I have it plein conseivedAnd the giftes that we han resseivedOn his byhalve in our grete nede -I wil remembre and take right gode hedeTo everything that thou hast us brought.For truste wel that I foryete it noughtBut enprente it surly in my myndeAnd with al this, how goodly that we fyndeThe gret bounté in al maner thingWithin this lond of Lamedoun the Kyng:His wolcomyng and his grete cherAnd the goodly sond that thou bryngist her,Nat accordyng unto oure entent;For God wel wot that we never mentHarme unto hym nor pleinly no damageTo noon of his of no maner age.And heruppon the goddis inmortalThat of kynde ben celestialUnto recorde with al myn hert I take;And touchyng this my borwys I hem make,In witnessyng we mente noon offenceNe toke nat, as by violence,Within his rewme of womman, child, nor man;And so thou maist reporte yif thou can -But for that we, fordriven in the se,Compellid wern of necessitéFor to arive, as thou haste herd me seyn,Only to reste us her upon the pleyn,Withoute more, unto a certeyn dayAnd afterward to holde furthe our wayUpon our jorneye and make no tariyng,Liche as thou maist recorde to thi kyng -And seye hym eke he schal the tyme seThat he paraunter schal mow thanked be,Whan tyme comyth, by us or by som other:Go furthe thi waye and seie hym thus, my brother."And than anoon, as Jason was in pes,The manly knyght, the worthi Hercules,Whan he had herd this thing fro poynt to point,He was anoon brought in swyche disjointOf hasty rancour and of sodeyn ire,The whiche his hert almost set afire,That sodeynly, as he abreyde abak,Of high disdeyn even thus he spakWith cher askoyn unto the messangerAnd seide, "Felaw, be no thing in werOf our abidyng but be right wel certeynThat or Tytan his bemys reise ageynWe schal depart and to schippe goon;That of oure men ther schal nat leven oonWithinne this lond and, God toforn, tomorwe.And herupon have her my feith to borwe;For we no lenger schal holden her sojour,For elleswher we schal make our retourTomorwe erly in the dawenyngUp peyne of repref; and so go seie the kyng.And or thre yere, yif God us graunte lyf,Maugre who gruccheth or maketh any strif,Unto this lond we schal ageyn retourneAnd caste anker a while to sojourne.Take hede therfore and note wel the tyme:A newe chaunge schal folwen of this pryme,And thanne his power schal not so large strecche;Of his saufconduit lytel schal we recche.I seie the platly, as is oure entent,We wil not have to his maundementBut lytel reward, and we that day abide;For takyng leve schal be set asydeBecause he hath now begonne a playWhich we schal quite - be God, yif that I may -That torne schal into his owne schame;And spare nought to seie the kyng the same."This massanger than gan ageyn replyeAnd seide, "Syr, ye may me not denyeOf honesté my massage to declare;Avise yow, for I wil not spareThe kynges sonde pleynly for to telle.And wherso be ye lyst to goon or dwelle,Ye may yit chese, whoso be lefe or lothe;Ye have no cause with me to be wroth;For it sit not unto your worthines,Yffe ye take hede be weye of gentilnes,Of manassyng swyche arwes for to schete;For more honest it were youre thretyng leteAnd kepe secrete til ye ben at your large.For certeinly no parcel of my chargeIs for to strive with yow or debate.But bet it is bytymes than to lateThat ye be war for harme that myghte fale.And for my parte, I saie unto yow alle,It were pité that ye distroied wereOr any man hyndre schulde or dereSo worthi persones in any maner wiseWhiche ben so likly to be discret and wise;And list with wordis as now I do you greve,I saye no more. I take of yow my leve."

[The Argonauts arrive at Colchos, where Jason enjoins Cethes (= Aeetes) to let him try for the Golden Fleece. Cethes gives his assent, and at a dinner party he seats Medea beside Jason.]But O, allas, ther lakked high prudence,Discret avis of inward providence,Wisdam also with pereil caste aforeTo trust a maide of tendre yeres bore,Of unhappy fonned wilfulnes.For this kyng of his gentelnesComaunded hath to his confusioun,To his dishonour and destrucciounHis owne doughter, born to be his eyr,That was also so wommanly and fair,So sodeynly doune to descende -Considered nat the meschef of the ende.Allas, why durst he in hir youthe affieTo make hir sytten of his cortesieWher sche myght by casuel mociounFul lightly cacche or han occasiounTo don amys; allas, whi dide he so?Why list hym nat taken hede thertoNor to adverte in his discresioun,Wysly to caste aforn in his resounThe unwar chaunge that is in wommonhed, Whiche every man oughte for to drede?For who was ever yit so mad or woodThat ought of resoun conne aright his goodTo yeve feith or hastily credence To any womman withoute experienceIn whom is nouther trust ne sikernesse?Thei ben so double and ful of brotilnesseThat it is harde in hem to assure;For unto hem it longeth of natureFrom her birth to haven alliaunceWith doubilnes and with variaunce.Her hertes ben so freel and unstable,Namly in youthe so mevynge and mutableThat so as clerkis of hem liste endite(Albe that I am sori it to write)Thei seyn that chawng and mutabilitéAppropred ben to femynynyté -This is affermed of hem that were ful sage.And speciali while thei be tender of ageIn her wexyng and whan that thei be yonge,Whos herte acordeth ful selde with her tonge.For if the trouthe inwardly be soughteWith the surpluse and remnaunte of her thoughte,Men may ther the trewe patron fyndeOf inconstaunce, whos flaskisable kyndeIs to and fro mevyng as a wynde,That Hercules wer nat strong to bynde Nouther Sampson, so as I bileve,Wommannes herte to make it nat remeve.For as the blase whirleth of a fire,So to and fro thei fleen in her desireTil thei acomplische fulli her delite.For as matere by naturel appetit,Kyndely desyreth after formeTil he his course by processe may performe,So this wommen restreynen hem ne canTo sue her lust ay fro man to man.Thei wil not cesse til al be assaied;But wolde God, as mater is apaiedWith o forme and holdeth him content,Whan of his boundys he hath the terme wentAnd not desyreth ferther to procedeBut stille abitte and wil it nat excede,That by ensample alle wommen woldeResten in on, as duelly thei schulde,And holde hem peyde and stille ther abide.But unsure fotyng doth hem ofte slide,For thei be nat content with unité:Thei pursue ay for pluralité,So of nature to mevyng thei be thewed,Although amonge, by signes outward schewed,Thei pretende a maner stabilnes;But under that is hid the dowbilnesSo secretly that outward at the eyeFul harde it is the tresoun to espie.Under curteyn and veil of honestéIs closed chaunge and mutabilité,For her desyr is kepte ful cloos in meweAnd thing thei hadde levest for to seweOnly outward for to have a laude,Thei can decline with feynyng and with fraude.Wherfore, Cethes, thi wit was to bareyneThat thou aforne by prudence naddist seyneWhat schulde folwe of this unhappy caas.Whi wer thou bolde for to suffre, allas,Thin owne doughter, so fair and fresche of hewe,With straunge gestis entred but of neweSo folily for to lete hir dele,Wherthorugh thin honour, thi worschip, and thin heleWas lost in haste, and sche to meschef broughtIn straunge londe with sorwe and myche thought.Wheras sche to grete sclaunder of theIn gret miserie and adversitéAn ende made and thou wer lefte al sool,Thou myghtest wel compleyne and make dool.Allas the while, yif in thi prudent syghtThou haddest grace to remembre arightAnd to have cast by discret purvyaunce,And weied wysely by mesour in balaunceThe fraude of wommon and the freelté,In whom ful selde is any sikerté,As in his Latyn Guydo doth expresse.Wherfor, thou Cethes, of verray reklesnesseThou hast attonys in augment of thi wooWithout recure bothe two forgoo:Firste thi tresour and thi doughter dere,That was to the so passyngly entere,And eke thin ayre; for whan that sche was goon,As seithe myn auctor, other was ther noonAfter thi day for to occupieThi royal septre nor thi lond to guye.But what was worth the grete providence,The wakir kepyng, or besy diligenceOf myghti Mars, that god is of bataile?What myght it help, diffende, or availeAgeyn the wit of womman or the sleighteWhos fraudes arn of so huge a weighteThat as hem list ay the game gothe,Her purpos halt, whoso be lefe or lothe - Thei ben so slighe, so prudent, and so wyse!For as this story plainly doth devise,This Medea by hir engyne and crafteFrom hir fader his tresour hath berafteThorugh the werchyng of hir sleighty gyle,As ye schal her withinne a lityl while.For as sche sat at mete in that tydeNext hir fader and Jason by hir syde,Al sodeinly hir fresche rosen heweFul ofte tyme gan chaunge and reneweAn hondrid sythe in a litel space.For now the blood from hir goodly faceUnto hir hert unwarly gan avale,And therewithal sche wexe ded and pale;And efte anoon, who that can take hed,Hir hewe chaungeth into a goodly red.But evere amonge t'ennwen hir colour,The rose was meynt with the lillie flour;And though the rose stoundemele gan pase,Yit the lillie abideth in his placeTil nature made hem efte to mete.And thus with colde and with sodein heteWas Medea in hirsilfe assailledAnd passyngly vexed and travailed.For now sche brent, and now sche gan to colde,And ay the more that sche began beholdeThis yong Jason, the more sche gan desyreTo loke on hym, so was sche sette afireWith his bewté and his semlynesse;And everything sche inly gan enpresseWhat that sche sawe, bothe in mynde and thought;Sche al enprenteth and forgat right nought;For sche considereth every circumstaunceBothe of his port and his governaunce:His sonnelyche here, crisped liche gold wyre,His knyghtly loke and his manly chere,His contenaunce with many noble signe,His face also, most gracious and benigne,Most acceptable unto hir plesaunce;For, as sche thought, it was sufficiaunceWithouten more unto hir alloneTo considre and loke on his persone.For in that tyme withouten any dredeOf mete or drinke sche toke but litel hede,For sche of food hath loste hir appetit;To loke on hym sche hath so gret delite -He was so prented in hir remembraunce.Love hath hir caught so newli in a traunce And ymarked with his firy brondThat sche may nought eskapen fro his hondNor eschewe his strok in special;For sche was yolde body, herte, and al,Unto Jason platly for to seye,And evere among on hym sche cast hir eye,Whan that sche fonde a leyser oportune.But of wisdam sche wolde nat contuneHir loke to longe, list men dempte amys;But as the maner of this wommen is,Sche kepte hir cloos and wonderly secree,That by hir chere no man myghte seeWhat that sche ment by noon occasioun.Sche put hem out of al suspeccioun,For openly ther was no tokne sene.Sche caste rather that men schulde weneThat th'enchesoun of hir abstinenceAnd why that sche satte so in silence -How that it was only of wommanhede,Of honest schame, and of chaste drede,That togidre in hir herte mette;The whiche tweyn so this maide letteFro mete and drink, as it wolde seme.Thus of wisdam sche made hem for to demeAnd so to cast in hir opinioun;And thus sche blent hem by discrecioun,For hir chere koude everything excuse.Sche gaf no mater folis for to muse;No cher unbridled that tyme hir asterte;For ther was oon enclosed in hir herteAnd another in her chere declared.For maidenes han ofte sythes sparedTo schewen oute that thei desyre in dede;As it falleth, whoso can take hede,That whil thei flouren in virginitéAnd for youthe have no libertéTo specifie that her herte wolde,Thei kepe hem cloos, for thei be nat boldeTo schewen out the somme of her sentence.And thus Medea, kepyng ay silence,Ne lete no worde by hir lippis passe,But covertly with sobre chere and faceWhat sche ment scheweth with hir eyeSo secretly that no man koude espieThe hoote fire in hir breste yreke;And in hirself right thus sche gan to speke,As sche in sothe that so moche can:"So wolde God, this yonge lusty man,Whiche is so faire and semly in my sighte,Assured were to be myn owne knyghte.Whiche is to me most plesaunt and entereWith berd ysprong, schyning liche gold were,So wel ilemed and compact by mesure,Wel growe on heighte and of gode stature;And lyketh me in every part so welThat by assent of Fortune and hir wheleI ewred were to stonden in his grace.For as me semeth, on his knyghtly faceIt is to me an hevene to byholde,Albe therwith myn hert I fele colde;And yit in soth it may noon other be.Allas! whi nadde he upon my wo pitéOr, at the leste, he knewe in his ententeHow moche trowth to hym that I mente!Of whiche, allas, he taketh no maner hede,Albe for hym I brenne as doth the gledeAnd to be ded I dar not me discure.Allas! my pitous and woful aventureIs to rewful and my mortal peyneSo to be mordred, and dar me not compleyneTo frende nor foo of my chaunce, allas,To finden help or socour in this caas.And trewely, yit as I schal devise,I nothing mene but in honest wise,Liche as it schal openly be fownde;For I desire to be knet and boundeWith hym in wedlok and never fro hym twynne;For my menyng is withowten synne,Grounded and set upon al clennes,Withoute fraude or any doubilnes -So clene and pure is myn entencioun!"Loo, ay the maner and condiciounOf this wommen, that so wel can feyneAnd schewen on, though thei thinke tweyne;And covertly, that nothing be seyn,With humble chere and with face pleynEnclose her lustis by swyche sotiltéUnder the bowndis of al honestéOf hir entent, though the trecherieWith al the surplus under be ywrye.And though that thei feith aforn pretendeAnd can her fraude with florissyng wel diffendeAnd flaterie, only the worlde to blende,With dowbilnes enclosed in the ende,Yit ay deceyt is benethe mentUndre the sugre of feyned clene entent,As it were soth in verray existence;But, trust me wel, al is but apparence.Thei can schewe on and another mene,Whos blewe is lightly died into grene;For under floures depeint of stabilnes,The serpent dareth of newfongilnes.So pleyne thei seme with wordis faire glosed,But undernethe her covert wil is closed;For what thing be most unto ther payThei wil denye and rathest ther swere nay.Thus liketh Guydo of wommen for t'endite.Allas, whi wolde he so cursedly writeAgeynes hem or with hem debate?I am right sory in Englische to translateReprefe of hem or any evel to seye;Lever me wer for her love deye.Wherefore I preye hem to take in pacience;My purpos is nat hem to done offence;Thei ben so gode and parfyte everechon,To rekne alle, I trowe ther be nat onBut that thei ben in wille and herte trewe.For though amonge thei chese hem lovis newe,Who considreth, thei be no thing to blame;For ofte tyme thei se men do the same.Thei most hem purveie whan men hem refuse;And yif I koude, I wolde hem excuse.It sitteth nat a womman lyve alone;It is no stor but thei have more than oon.Preying to hem for to do me grace,For as I hope, to hem is no trespasThough my makyng be the same in al,As Guydo wryt in his original -Where he mysseyth, late hym bere the wyte.For it sit wel that the vengaunce byteOn hym that so this wommen hath offendid;And yif I myght, it schulde ben amendid.He schulde reseyve duely his penaunce;For yif he died withoute repentaunce,I am dispeired of his savacioun,Howe he schulde ever have remissioun,But he were contrite his synne to redresse;It may not ben, as clerkys bere wytnesse.And be my trouthe, and he were alyve -I mene Guydo - and I schulde hym shryve,So bitter penaunce pleynly he schulde haveThat to the tyme that he were igraveHe schulde remembre and platly not asterteFor to repente hym with al his hole herteThat he so spake to his confusioun.I wil no lenger make digressiounFro my matere, but let Guydo beAnd telle forthe the worching of Medee,That hath licence of hir fader nomeAnd to hir chaumbre is allone ycome,Whan oute of halle withdrawen was the presAnd whan Jason and also Hercules,Liche as the kyng after mete bad,To her chaumbres conveied wern and lad,Ful rially arrayed and beseyn;For every wal was cured in certeynWith clothe of golde in ful statly wyse.

[Medea is in love with Jason, and for his safety she begs him not to try for the Fleece. When he refuses to quit the quest, Medea agrees to help him. They commit themselves to one another, and at night Medea calls an old woman to secret Jason into Medea's chamber.]Whan that the cok, comoun astrologer,The mydnyght hour with his vois ful clereBegan to sowne and dide his besy peyneTo bete his brest with his wyngys tweyneAnd of the tyme a mynute wil not passeTo warnen hem that weren in the placeOf the tydes and sesoun of the nyght,Medea to wayten upon hir knyghtFul redy was the entré for to kepe,As sche that list ful litel for to slepe;For that ne was no parcel of hir thought.And whan Jason was to hir chambre broughtWithout espying of eny maner wight,Than sche anoon conveyeth hym ful rightInto hir closet in al the hast sche may,Ful wel beseyn with gret and riche araye,Where by hir side sche made hym take his se.And first of alle this ilke lees of thre,By hir that was moste expert in this cas,Was sodeynly turned to a bras;For the vekke to stare upon the moneIs walked out and hath hem lefte allone.And whan Medea the dores hadde schet,Down by Jason anoon sche hath hir set.But first I fynde with al hir besy myghtAboute the chamber that sche sette up lightOf grete torches and cyrges ful royalAboute on pilers and on every wal,Whiche yaf a light liche the sonne schene.And to a cheste wrought of cristal cleneFirst of al sche taketh hir passage,Out of the wiche sche toke a rich ymageOf pured gold, ful lusty to beholde,That by custom of this rytes oldeTo myghti Jove, eterne and increat,Ihalwed was and also consecrat.The whiche ymage, devoutly as sche oughte,With humble herte to Jason first sche broughteAnd made hym lowly theron take his otheUnto his laste, outher for lefe or lothe,That he hir schulde take unto his wifeFro that day forth duryng al his lifeWith hert unfeyned and feith inviolatAnd cherischen hir liche to hir estat.For to that tyme, I fynde how that scheHadde ever floured in virginité;And as myn auctor wel reherse can,Ay kepte hir clene from touche of any manIn thoughte and dede and never dide amys:For sche of herte so hooly yoven isUnto Jason and that for evermo.And he anoon hath put his honde thertoAnd sworne fully, as ye han herde me say,Al hir requestes withoute more delayTo kepen hem whil his life may laste.But, O allas, how sone he overcasteHis heste, his feith, with whiche he was assured,And hadde his fraude with flaterie ycuredSo covertly that hir innocence,Hir trewe menyng, and hir diligence,And al that ever sche devise canDeseyved was by falshed of this man!And though that trouthe was apparent above,Doubilnes so slighly was in schove,As though he hadde sothly ben alliedWith trewe menyng, and so nothing espiedUnder faire chere was feynyng and fallas.For what myght sche ha wrought more in this casThan for thi sake, septre and regalye,And alle the lordis eke of hir allyeForsoke attonys and toke of hem noon hede;And of pité and verray goodlyhedeLoste hir frendes and hir goode fame,Only, Jason, to save the fro schame;And yit, moreovere, forsoke hir heritage,Sche that was born of so highe parageAnd schulde have ben by successiounEyre by dissent of that regioun.But wommanly for sche wolde hir quite,Of al yfere sche sette nought a myte,But at oon hour al sche hath forsake,And unto the sche hath hir hooly take:Only for truste thou schuldest have be kynde.Riches and honour sche hath yleft byhyndeAnd ches in exil with the for to goonFrom al hir kyn, this cely maide allone.Allas, I wepe for thin unkyndenes!What, hath sche nat fro deth and fro distressePreserved the, and yit thou takest noon hede,That schust adeyed, nadde sche ben thin rede!Of thi conqueste sche was the verray cause!That I may nat schortly in a clauseWriten hir bounté nor brefly comprehendeEffectuelly parformed to the ende,At wordes fewe it may nat be tolde.Thorugh whom thou hast the riche flees of goldeManly conquered, whiche withoute douteUnlikly was the to have brought aboute;For whan thou were of helpe destitut,Sche was thi counfort and singuler refut.And with al this, thou maist it nat deneye,Al erthly honour how sche gan defyeThe to conserve out of hevenes;And hir fader sche hath of his richesSo emporisched that pité is to here:Be exaumple of whiche wommen myght lereHow thei schulde truste on any man.Allas, Medea, that so moche canBothe of sterris and of astronomye!Yet sawe sche nat aforn hir destenye:Love hadde hir put oute of governaille,That al hir crafte ne might hir not availle.Sche was to slowe by calculaciounTo cast aforn the constellaciounOf hir birthe and hir woful fate;For rekleshed sche sawe it al to late.But I suppose hir konnynge was fallible;For douteles, me semeth nat credible,That yif sche hadde wist of it tofore,So pitously sche hadde nat be lore,As ye schal seen hereafter hastely,So as the story reherseth by and by,Howe it befel of Jason and Medee.But first ye schul the ordre and maner seHow sche wrought after he was swore:The same nyght, allas, sche hathe forboreHir maidenhed, and that was grete pité.And yet sche ment nat but honesté;As I suppose, sche wende have ben his wyfe;But touching that, I holde as now no strife.And yit o thing I dar afferme and seyne,That the menyng of this ilke tweyneNe was nat on but wonder fer atwene;For al that sche trewely gan mene,Of honesté thinkyng noon outerage,Liche a maide innocent of age,He to acomplische his fleschely fals deliteAnd to parforme his foule appetiteWrought everything to hir entent contrerie.Allas, that sche was so debonaireFor to trust uppon his curtesyeOr to quite hir of hir genterie,So hastely to rewe upon his smerte:But wommen ben of so tender hertThat thei wil gladly of routhe and pité,Whan that a man is in adversité,Saven his life rather than he deye.And so Medea, schortly for to seye,Castyng no pereil after that schal falle,His desyris and his lustis alleHooly obeyeth with al hir ful myght;And that so longe almost that the nyghtHath his cours rounde aboute goon.At whiche tyme to hir spake JasonAnd lowly seide, "My lady, it is tymeThat we arise, for sone it wil be pryme:Ye may se wel the day begynneth springe,For we may here how the briddes singe.Preying to yow in al my beste wyse,How I schal wirke that ye list deviseAnd ceryously everything dispose,I yow beseche, O goodly fresche rose,Myn emprise to bringen to an ende;And thanne at erst hennes wil I wende,Save that I thinke first with you to treteIn what wyse this contré ye schal leteAnd into Grece repeire ageyn with me,Whiche is a londe of gret felicité.For trusteth wel, and beth no thing in drede,Into that regne with me I schal you ledeAfter my conquest, yif so be that I wynne.Wherfore, I praye you goodly to begynne,How I schal werke, in al the hast ye may,For in good feith anoon it wil be day."

[Medea gives Jason charms to keep him safe: a silver image, a flame-proof ointment, a poison-destroying ring of invisibility, a spell to read before touching the Fleece, and glue to shut fast the jaws of the fire-breathing bulls. Cethes tries to stop Jason again, but he soldiers on.]Whan Titan had with his fervent heteDraw up the dewe from the levis weteToward mydmorwe, as I can diffyne,Upon the hour whan the cloke is nyne,Jason ful manly and ful lyke a knyght,Armed in steel, of chere ful glad and lyght,Gan dresse him forth, what hap that ever falle,And seide adieu unto his feris alle,He in the bot and thei upon the stronde.And al allone, whan he cam to londeAnd in the water had his vessel lafte,He first of al remembring on the crafteOf Medea, with al the circumstauncesAnd how he schulde kepe his observauncesIn everything and had it wel in mynde - And thanne anoon ful manly, as I fynde,He schope him forthe and wente a knyghtly pasToward the bolis, that forget wer of bras.But at the point whan he his jorné ganFor hym Medea wexe ful pale and wan,So sore agast that nothing myght hir glade,A routh it was to se what wo sche made:For the teris on hir chekis tweyne,Ful pitously doun distille and reyne,That al fordewed wern hir wedis blake.And ay this sorwe sche made for his sakeLiche a womman ferful and in doute,While he his armys ful manly brought aboute.To sobbe and syghe sche can not ben in pees,List he for hast were oughte rekelesFrom point to point to don liche as sche bad.This was the life that sche for hym hath lad.And for to seen how he schulde hym defende,Sche gan anoon by greces to ascende Of a tour into a highe pynacleTher as sche myght have noon obstacleNor lettyng nouther, for to han a sighteOf hym that was hir owne chose knyghte.And ever among with wordis out sche brakAnd stoundemel thus to hir silf sche spake:"O thou Jason, my sovereyn hertis hele,Yif thou knewe what wo for the I fele,Sothly, I trowe, it schuld the nat asterteFor to be trewe with al thin hoole herte.And God, I praye, this journé at the lesteMay this tyme tornen for the beste,And kepe the sauf and sounde in every membre,And yif the myght fulli to remembre,As I the taught and in the same forme,Everything fully to parforme,Only this day thin honour to avaunce,Whiche for to sen wer al myn hool plesance.For certeyn, Jason, yif the fil ought amys,Farewel myn helthe and al my worldly blis,And my welfare, my fortune, and my grace,And farewel thanne my myrthe and my solace,And al attonys myn hertly sufficiance!"Lo, this for him was hir governaunceFrom the tyme that he the lond hath nome.And first of al, whan that he was comeWhere as the bolis, fel and dispitous,Out caste her fire and flawme furiousAt her mowthes, wonder large and huge,Ageyn the whiche, for his chefe refuge,Hym to save that he wer nat brentHe was enoynt with an oignementOn his body, that kepte hym fro damageOf thilke fire, that was so ful of rage,And the smokys, dirke and ful horrible,Whiche to eskape was almost impossibleFor any man, of what estat he be,Withoute comfort and conseil of Medee,By whos doctrine Jason can so wirkeThat he is skapid from the mystis dirkeOf the fire with his blases blake,That al the eyre so cloudy dide make.Sche had hym made so discrete and sageOnly by vertu of thilke ymage,Which that he aboute his nekke bare,Wherby he was so prudent and so warThat, whan the bolis han most fersly gaped,He hath her malis avisely eskapid.For th'enfeccioun of hir troubled eyrHe hath venquesched and was in no dispeire;For in effecte, ageyn the foule fume,That wolde a man unto the deth consume,The ymage was a preservatif,Hym to defende and to save his life.And more surly to kepe hym oute of drede,Ful ofte sythe the writ he dide rede;For the vertu of that orisounWas unto hym ful proteccioun,That he nat fil into no distresse.And after that, for more sikernesse,Hym to preserve in this mortal caas,He toke the licour that in the viol wasAnd therwithal, ful like a manly man,Al attonis, he to the bolys ranAnd forgat nat so warly it to caste;And therwithal her chaules wer made fasteAnd by the vertu so myghtely englewedThat he therthorugh hath outterly eschewedTh'enfeccioun of the smoky levene.And whan the eyr gan cleryn and the heveneAnd the mystis wern wastid hym toforn,With manly hert he raughte by the hornThe sterne bolis; and by violenceHe drowe hem forthe, in whom was no diffence,And yoketh hem, so as the maner was;And with the plowe he made hem gon a pasNowe up, now doun and to ere the lond.And at his lust so buxum he hem fondeThat the soil, smothe, bare, and pleyn,Thei maked han redy to bere greyn,And on rengis it torned upsodoun:For tho in hem was no rebelliounBut humble and meke and redy at his wille,Alle his desires pleynly to fulfille.And Jason thanne liche a champiounGan hym inhast towarde the dragoun,That was a beste gret and monstruous,Foule and horrible and right venymous,And was enarmed in skalis large and thikke,Of whom the brethe more perillous and wikkeWas than the eyr of any pestelence;For his venym was of swiche violenceThat it was ful dedly and mortal.And at his throte ther issed oute withalA flawme of fire, as of a fournes moutheOr liche the levene that doun by the southeOut of the est is wont in tempest smyte:Right so the dragoun, sothly for to write,Out of his mouthe had a flaume blasid.Wherof Jason first a litel masidWas in his hert of that dredful thing,But whan that he remembrid on his ring,Al fer and drede was leide asyde and goon;For in that ring ther was sette a stoon,Ful riche and noble and right vertuous,The whiche, as techith gret YsydorusAnd myn auctor also, as I fynde,Most comounly cometh out of Ynde,And mot be kepte chast and wonder clene,And of colour surmounteth every grene.Whos vertu is al venym to distroyeAnd to withstonde that it may nat anoye,Of dragoun, serpent, adder and of snake.And specialy, yif that it be takeAnd yholden in the opposyt Of any werm, even ageyn the syght,Withoute abood, in sothe, he may not chese:Of his venym the force he moste lese,How strong it be or violent of rage.But to the stoon it doth ful gret damage;For whan he hath his vertu don, as blyveOn pecis smale it gynnyth al to riveAnd in itsilf hool abit no while.For in the londe that called is CecyleTher is a worme that Bufo bereth the name;And whan men wil of malis make him tameAnd his venym outerly represse,Thei take a squille, myn auctor bereth witnes,Whan thei wil wirke, or a large canne,And in the ende the ston thei sette thanne,And lyne right ageyn the wormes hedThei holden it, til that he be ded.For that is sothly his vertu of nature,That no venym may lasten nor endureIn the presence of this riche stoon.And as I fynde, this Bufo right anoonThorugh myght therof bresteth even on tweyneOnly by kynde, whiche no man may restreyne.For the goddesse that called is Nature,Whiche nexte hir lord hath al thing in cure,Hath vertu yove to herbe, gras, and stoon,Whiche no man knoweth but hirsilf allon;The causis hid ben closed in hir honde,That wit of man can not understondeOpenly the myght of hir wirkynge.And so Jason by vertu of this ringAnd thorugh his ston, that myght him most avaunce,Hath the dragoun brought unto uttraunce.In whom he fonde no maner resistenceHym to withstonde, force nor diffence,Nouther be venym nor noon other strif;Wherfor he hath berefte hym of hys lifeIn manly wise and in the felde outraied.And Jason than, ful glad and wel apaied,Hath with his swerd spent on him many strokeAnd leied on him as men hewe on an oke;His brighte squamys wern so harde and dureThat wel onethe he ne myght endureHym to dismembre and smyten of his hed.And than anoon in the stede of sedHe gan his teth out of his hed arrace,And right forthewith in the silfe placeHe gan hem sowe, liche as men do corn,Upon the lond that ered was aforn.Of whiche sede ther sprang a wonder greyn,Bright armed knyghtes stondyng on the pleyn,The whiche anon with scharpe swerdis groundeEveryche gan other for to hurte and wounde,Til eche his felawe hath cruelly yslawe:This of hir fate was the fynal lawe,That noon of hem schulde be victorieThe deth rejoische of other by memorie;For alle yfere thus thei made an ende.And after this Jason gan to wendeUnto the ram with al his dilligence,In whiche he fonde no power nor diffence,No maner strife nor rebellioun;And myghtely the ram he draweth dounAnd sette on hond upon every hornAnd slowe it first; and than he hath it schornOut of his flees of gold so passyng riche,That in this world ther was no tresour liche.And after that he made no delayTo take his bote as faste as he mayAnd roweth forthe into the tother yle,Wher Hercules, al the mene whileUpon the brinke with many another mo,Abod Jason til he hadde do.And everychon I fynde that as blive,Only for joye whan he dide aryve,Thei gan to thanke to her goddes alleSo graciously that it hath yfalleAnd that the flees he hath so knyghtly wonne,That schon as clere as the somer sonne,Whiche that he brought with hym unto londe,His feris alle abyding on the stronde.

[Jason and Medea have pre-marital sex and abandons Medea. The heroes return to Thessaly to the distress of Peleus, who surrenders his kingdom to Jason. Jason, angry at King Laomedon's rudeness at Troy, sets about creating an expedition, to be led by Peleus, to seek vengeance.]

And also faste as the kyng was stille,The noble knyghte, the strong HerculesIn the presence of that worthi pres Seide his counseil was heghly to commende,For wis begynnyng is preysed be the ende:"But to effecte our purpos for to bryng,My counseil is, in the morwenyngToforne or we discured ben be day,That we us arme in al haste we mayAnd on this felde that we do oure peyneFor to devyde oure meyné into tweyne;And of the ton schal Kyng ThelamounBe governour for his highe renoun,And of the tother Kyng Pelleus schal haveThe governaunce, wysly hem to save;And I mysilfe and Jason here my brotherSchal secrely go with alle the totherUnder the cité, or the sonne schynes,And in the bruschail and the thikke vynesWe schal us hyde and kepe us ther ful koye;For Lamedoun, that is Kyng of Troye,Anon as he may heren and espieOf the Grekis, with his chevalryeOut of the cité wele issen oute anoonWith yow to fighte and venge him of his foon;But whan he cometh to our schippis ward,Nestor the duke schal in the firste wardMetyn with hym, and Castor schal also,Whan he seth tyme, knyghtly have adoTo help Nestor, yif that it be nede.The thridde warde Pelleus schal lede;And whiles ye thus hym occupie,Jason and I schal us faste hyeTo the cité, unwiste of hem echon;I doute nat we schal it wynne anoon.Doth be counseil, and it wil yow availe;And her my trouthe, ye ne may not fayleFor to conquere the cité yonde afore;This al and some - ye gete of me no more."And thei acorde with al her strenthe and myghteAnd armen hem in stele that schon ful brighteAgeyn the sonne amorwe whan he riseth,And wrought fully as Hercules deviseth.And Lamedoun, whan he herde telleOf her comyng, hym lyst no lenger dwelle,But out he went with many a noble knyghte,Flourryng in youthe and desirous to fyghte,And alle tho that myght armes bere,Or koude schete or durste handle a spere.And whan thei were assemblid in the felde,Everyche his armes depeynt uppon his scheld,Brouded or bete upon his cote armure,Than Lamedoun with al his besy cureSet hem in ordre and his wardes maketh,And in the felde furthe his weye he takethTowardis the Grekis, as eny lyne righte,Fully purposyng to abide and fighte.He was nat war of hem that were behynde;He nat adverteth nor casteth in his myndeThe grete sleighte nor the trecheryThat hym was schape: he koude it nat espie;But furthe he went with his wardis set.And the Grekis anoon with hym han metWith herte bolde, astonyed nat at al.Duke Nestor firste, sturdy as a wal,In whos manhod was never founde lake,Ful knyghtly than uppon horse bake,To hert his men and his knyghtes eke,Gan presen in with many worthi Greke,With Lamedoun sturdely to mete.At whiche tyme thei felte ful unswete,And in the frountel ful many manly manWith scharpe speris first togidre ran;And with swerdis scharpe and kene groundeWas thilke day yoven many wounde;Ther as thei mette upon every syde,Thorugh plate and mayle her woundis bledde wyde.And basenettis thei riven to the crowne;The noise of strokis in the eyr gan sowne;And of the blood that was schad of neweThe grene soile chaunged hath his hewe:For it was died playnly into red,Upon the whiche ful many man lay dedAnd many worthi loste ther his lif.And certeynly in this mortal strif,The Grekis had discomfetid ben echon,Nadde Castor socored hem anoon;Thei of Troye so manly han hem boreThat many knyght of Grekis were ilore:But whan Castor entreth in batailWith his knyghtes, so sore he dide assaylThe worthi Troyans that with spere and scheldGrekis ageyn recured han the felde,That many oon lyth slayen on the grene,Girt thorugh the body with scharp speris kene,That thai of Troye in this mortal stourWere drive abak, til ther cam socourTo hem in hast of worthi Lamedoun,Whiche entred in liche a wood lyounAnd made weye upon every syde.And where as he made his swerde to glide,Ther was but deth, so manly he hym bareThat wel unnethe was ther non that darAbide his stroke; for ridyng up and doun,He made weye aboute hym enviroun.In the rengis he hath his foon oute sought;That day in armys merveiles he hath wrought,That by his manhod and his worthinesHe Grekis hath brought in swiche distresThat thei his swerde fledden as the deth,Merciles so many of hem he sleth.Of whiche slaughter the Grekis wer confus,Til Pelleus cam to her rescus,Iros and wood, as he wer falle in rage.He thought he wolde the grete pompe aswageOf hem of Troye, and so he dide anoon;For he unhorseth of hem many oonAnd felly slowe al that stood hym aforne,And many harnes he hath that day totorneAnd made scheldes for to rive asoundre,That to beholde it was a verray wonder,Til Lamedoun his peple sawe goo bake,For Pelleus brought hem so to wrake.Wherof he felt in hert ful gret peyne,Besechyng hem to repeyre ageyneAnd kythe her myght and lyche as men endure;And so the felde he made hem to recure,Til duke Nestor knewe that LamedounAmyd the felde was Kyng of Troye town.And right anoon withoute more aboodAgeynes hym a ful gret pas he rood;And whan the kyng dide hym first espie,Of highe dispit, of rancour and envie,In knyghtly wyse gan to torne ageyn,No thing agast but of highe disdeyn,With irous hert enbollid al with pride,His hors fersly gan takyn in the syde,Til ther ran out the verray rede blood;And to Nestor, liche as he were wood,He rood anoon, and his spere brake;But he ful knyghtly kepte his horse bakAnd ful deliverly, hym ageyn to quyteWith a spere ful scharpe whet to byte,Thorugh schelde and breste gaf hym swiche a woundeThat from his hors he felde him doun to grounde.Of whiche fal the kyng no thing aferdeBut ros hym up and pulled out a swerde,So anger fret hym at his herte roteThat he unhorsed feghte muste on fote;Wherof he was in parti ful confus,Til oon Cedar cam to his reskus,That was made knyghte the silfe same yere,Yong, fresche, and lusty, and of noble chere,Sitting that tyme on a noble stede.And whan that he gan to taken hedeAnd sawe the kyng on fote at meschef fighte,He gan to prike in al the hast he myghteToward Nestor and with a spere hym hitte,From his sadel that he made hym flitteDown to the grounde afore Kyng Lamedoun.But he anon liche a champiounRecured up and hymsilfe diffendeth;And many strok eche on other spendethWith scharpe swerdis, kene for to bite;Everyche at other gan to foyne and smyte,Til Lamedoun with a dispitous chereFrom his face raced his visereAnd by force al at onys smetA riche cercle from his basenet,Of large perle goyng enviroun -With creste and al, he fersly bette adoun:That whiles Nestor thus aforn him stood,His face was al depeynt with blood,That certeynly, the sothe to conclude,Had nat Grekis with gret multitudeReskewed hym, he hadde of LamedounBe slaye as faste; for he was bore dounUnto the erthe among the horse feet.But Castor thoghte that he nolde leetTo be his helpe, as he behelde afeer;And irously he toke a myghty speer,And to Cedar, that I spak of late,He gan to ride and priken in gret hate:But or he cam to hym, douteles,A Troyan knyght, callid Segnerides,Cosyn to Cedar, whan he hath this seen,On a courser rood anoon between;And with a spere he smete Castor soThat with the stroke he brake evene atwo.To whom Castor withoute more aresteHath with a spere amyddes of the bresteSegnerides yove a mortal wounde,That likly was never for to sounde.Wherof Cedar caughte swiche envieThat he anoon, of malencolyeAnd of dispit boilyng in his herte,Segnerides whan he sawe so smerte,Maugre who gruccheth, amyddes of the feldOf verray myght from Castor toke his scheldAnd thorugh viser, of rancour and of rage,He wounded hym amyddes the visage; And his hors from hym also he caughte,And to his squier manfully it raughte:That certeynly he stood in swiche disjoynt,This worthi Castor, that he was in poyntTo have ben take of hem of Troye tho;For he on fote with hem moste have go,Nadde Pollux with many manly knyght,Mo than sevene hundrid in stele armyd bright,The rather com Castor to reskewe;Whiche after hem so sore gan to seweThat maugre hem, Castor whan he fond,Of force he toke hym fre out of her hondAnd to his hors restorid hym ageyn.And after that, this Pollux in certeyn,Of verray angre and of fervent ire,Agein Troyens with rancour set afire,That al attonis he uppon hem set;And in his mood, by fortune as he metA Troyan knyght, called Eliatus,In armys yong, fresche, and desirous,Wonder semly and but tender of age,The Kynges sone also of CartageAnd nevewe eke unto Lamedoun,Whom Pollux hath lyche a ferse lyounWithoute routhe, pité, or mercy,In the rengis slawen cruelly -That Lamedoun, whan he gan take hede,Of inward dool felte his herte blede,Whan he hym sawe evene uppon the dethFul pitously yelden up the bretheUpon the playn, as he lay hym beforn.For whiche anoon he made sowne an horn, At whiche ther cam a ful riche array,Sevene thowsand knyghtes, in al hast thei mayUpon his deth avenget for to be.Whiche mercyles, of grete cruelté,The Grekis han here and ther igrounded:Here lith on ded, ther another wounded,So that thei myght have with hem no tak.So mortally thei made hem gon abak,That al gan turne to her confusioun;And finaly that day with LamedounThe tryumphe had and the felde ygoon,Save that, allas, oute of the toun anoonUnto the kyng ther cam a messagerThat hath hym tolde with a ful pitous chereHow the Grekis han the cité take.Than for to se the wo he dide makeIt wolde have made a pitus hert as blyveOf verray dool asondre for to rive,So sore he gan within hymsilfe to morne.He wiste nat what party he myght turne;But in a were he abydynge longeAforn hym sawe the myghty Grekis strongeAnd in the cyté another host behynde:Almost for wo he went out of his mynde;And sodenly, bacward as he behildeToward the cité, he sawe com in the feldeFirst Hercules and with hym Jason,That by her sleyght wonen han the toun.And in al hast this cruel Hercules,The myghty geaunt of force pereles,Liche a lyoun wood and dispitousOr a tigre in rage furious,Gan of newe hem of Troye assailleAnd with his swerde perce plate and mail,Whiche of labour wer ful mate and feyntAnd of long fighte with werynes atteynt.And he cam in, lusty, fresche, and grene,That thei his force myghte nat sustene;For as he rod among hem here and yonder,In cruel wyse he severed hem asonderAnd put hem holy in this highe meschaunceOute of rewle and of governaunce;So that the kyng, oppressed al with dool,Of his wardis destitute and sool,At meschef lefte and al infortunat,And of comfort fully disconsolat -This Hercules with a dispitous lookWith scharpe spors his stede felly tokeAnd cruelly rod til Lamedoun,And to the erthe fersly bare hym doun,And upon hym, in al the hast he myghte,Downe of his hors sodeinly alyghte,And myghtely rent of his basenet,And with a swerde scharpe grounde and whetSmot of his hede - ther was noon other grace -And caste it furthe in the silve placeAmong the hors by cruel violence,Withoute pité or any reverence;And in a rage raghte his hors ageynAnd lyche a lyoun rengyng on the playnBar downe and slowe what cam in his weye.And many Troyan that day made he deye,That liche to schepe wer forskatered wyde,Al destitute of governour or guyde,Ne can no rede, schortly to conclude;For the Grekis with double multitudeGan hem enchace to the deth ful blyve,That wel unnethe ther left noon alyve.The feld thei han and ben that day victours;And with tryumphe, liche as conquerours,To the cité thei take her weye afterAnd rende doun bothe sparre and rafter;And al the tresour and riches of the tounThei toke anoon to her pocessioun,Who ever grucche or be lef or lothe;What thei founde, pleynly with hem gothe.In the temples thei dide gret offence,To the goddis doyng no reverence;For al thei spoyle, withoute drede or fere,And unto schip everything thei bere;And merciles on croked, olde, and lame,Her swerde thei made cruelly atame;And children soukyng at the moder brestThei mordre and sle withoute more arest;And yong maydenes, wepyng in distresse,Ful gentil born and of gret fayrnesse,With hem thei ladde and may hem nat excuseHer fresche bewté falsly to mysuse.Thei waste and brenne and consumen al,And withoute thei brake adoun the wal.And Exione, the kynges doughter dere,That was to hym passyngly entereBy his lyve - I mene Lamedoun - Meke and benyng of condicioun,Hercules hath anoon hir take,That for drede pitously gan quake,And hir delivered unto Thelamoun,For he entrede first into the toun.And he his gifte reseyved hath at greBecause sche was surmountyng of bewtéAnd tretid hir after as he wolde,Nat lyche as he a kynges doughter schulde.For syth he gat hir that day be victorieFor his worschip and his owne glorie,Havyng rewarde to hir highe degré,He schulde rather of kyngly honestéAnd of knyghthood have weddid hir therfore,Syth that sche was of blood so gentil bore,Than of fals lust, ageyn al godlyhedeUsed hir bewté and hir womanhedeDishonestly, and in synful wyse -Of royal blood nat liche the highe emprise,Nor the doctrine of naturis right,Nor liche the norture of a gentil knyght:Considered first hir birthe and hir kynrede,Hir grene youthe, and hir maydenhed,So gode, so fayre, so womanly therto.A kynges doughter of birth sche was also;To have wedded hir it had be no schame.Now, Thelamoun, in soth thou wer to blame;For thorugh the errour of thi governaunce,Ther kyndled was of ful hyghe vengaunceSo hoot a sparke after of envyeThat thorugh the worlde the fyr gan multiplie,Whiche was nat liche to quenchyn of his hete. 2For hatred olde to brenne can nat leteWith newe flawme, whoso taketh hede;Yif it nat smeke, it is the more to drede,As in the story herafter schal be knowe.And whan this toun was brent and broughte lowe,Bothe tour and wal with the soil made pleyn,And nothing stood, allas, that may be seyn,(So outterly the Grekis hem oppresse,Makyng al waste liche a wyldernesse),For good and tresour and riches infinyt,With many jowel ful plesyng of delytTo her schippis out of the toun thei lede,And in schort tyme homward thei hem spedeWith tresour stuffid and haboundance of good.And whan thei seye that the wedir stood,The wynde also at her lust thei hadde,Thei gan to saille, and with hem hom thei laddeExyona and many a mayde mo,That out of Troye into Grece goo.And seyling forthe, within a lytel spaceThei ben eskapid fro the se by graceAnd unto lond aryved merily.At whos commyng the Grekis outerlySo joyful ben of her goode spede;And specialy, in Guydo as I rede,Her schippes wern with golde and tresour lade;Wherof in herte thei wexe wonder glade.And for thei hadde out so wel hem bornTo conquere Troye and so fewe lorneOf her meiné, thei thanke her goddes alleAnd of the grace that to hem is falle.For with the tresour that thei han hom broughtFul many pore was made up of nought;Thorughout the lond there was swiche aboundance,So moche good, and so gret sufficiaunceThat no wight had amonges hem no nede.And many day this blisful lyfe thei ledeFrom yer to yer by revolucioun;And for her manhood and her highe renounHer honour ran rounde the worlde aboute,That hem t'offende every londe hath doute,For her knyghthod and for thei wer so wyse.And til the story liste ageyn devyseIn this mater ferther to procede,With the favour of youre goodlyhedI wil me reste for a litel spaceAnd than, upborn with support of your grace,Forthe acomplische as I undertook.And here an ende of the firste bookI make now with quakyng hond for drede,Only for fer of yow that schal it rede,Liste ye, allas, of hasty mocyounNe wil not have no compassioun,Pyté, nor routhe upon my rudenesse;Lowly beseching to your gentilnesOf mercy only bothe neghe and ferreWhere ye fynde that I fayle or erre,For to correcte or ye ferther flitte,For to your grace I holy al commytte.